The Don
by sternenacht
Summary: Leone gets revenge on Giorno for disobeying his orders in Pompeii.


Nobody expected the old shadowy Don to kick the bucket, and certainly nobody had expected a blond, willowy, fifteen-year-old who didn't even have facial hair yet to take his place, but they'd all be making the best of a bad situation. All of the secrecy of Passione's past reign came to a halt with the arrival of the new king, glowing and golden and entirely resplendent in his old wooden chair. "Away with the anonymity," Don Giovanna declared, "I have power and I wish for that to be known. My subordinates shall not fear retribution from a divine force, they will fear it from a familiar one."

But as Angelo Messi stood in line to kiss the soft knuckles of Don Giovanna, the boy in the chair seemed too much like a god. "You are both young," Mr. Messi Senior said, "perhaps you will bond over the frivolities of youth and secure us a higher position in the ranks." His father was not often wrong, but Angelo had to concede that this was one such case where his experience did not win out. Angelo was only mortal in the face of divinity; as different as night and day. The godling remained impassive and beautiful as his watchdog in the stupid hat lurked behind him at his right shoulder. The line of mafiosos in front of him grew shorter and shorter, and it was almost his turn, when the door slammed open.

"Giorno," said a tall silver-haired man who stood in the doorway like he owned the place. He looked familiar. Who was he to refer to the godling without a title? Angelo didn't quite understand why he rose to the defense of the Don; something about him simply called for respect as naturally as breathing. His clothes and makeup were dark and gave him the impression of a moving shadow, same as his nasty attitude. If Angelo saw this man on the same side of the street as him, he'd cross. Unlike the rest of the mobsters in the room, this one didn't dress like he was prepared for a meeting with the one who held his life in his hands. His jacket remained mostly untied with nothing on underneath it, giving everyone else an eyeful. A garish belt buckle hung at the intruder's hips and shimmered obnoxiously in the light. And were those women's bell-bottoms? Angelo kept his mouth shut and watched impartially. "I've got to ask a favor."

"Of course, Abbacchio, my friend. Ask away." Don Giovanna said in his usual soft voice that contained a barely-thrumming energy below the surface. If pushed too far, would it explode?

Abbacchio (was that his name, even,) cleared his throat. Angelo recognized the name. The crooked young cop that one of his subordinates had bribed a few years back, the one with the dead partner who Buccellati had adopted like a stray. If his reports continued to serve him right, the man was little more than the capo's bitch on a leash, snapping ruthlessly at anyone he didn't like until his capo brought him to heel. He had been one of the suicide-crazed young members (the same age as himself) that overthrew the Devil himself through dumb luck or some strange power Angelo couldn't understand.

"Do you remember Pompeii with Illuso and the key?" Abbacchio began. "How you went against orders from me, when I had seniority, in order to save Fugo and me?"

"How I saved your life, you mean?" Giovanna gazed innocently through long feminine lashes. The other looked down at the child like he was an insect crawling through the dirt, purple lipsticked mouth twisting into a snarl. The other men in suits watched. Giovanna's bodyguard fingered the handle of the pistol tucked into the waistband of his garish pants.

"Yes, that too. But there's just one thing I need to get out of the way before I pledge my loyalty." He spoke with strain, like staying calm was a measured effort. Judging by the near-murderous look on his face, it was.

"What would that be?"

"I said I'd beat the shit out of you when I had two hands again."

"Mista, you can leave now," he said. The man with the gun slunk to the door, nearly slamming into Angelo on his way out. "Anyway. I don't recall."

"I certainly do," Abbacchio said ominously. "But I'm going to have to ask you to stand first."

The Don obeyed. "Why?"

"Thank you, Don Giovanna," said the shadow.

In a movement too fast to track, a fist collided into Don Giovanna's jaw as a nasty crack rang out. He crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, head whipping back with the force of the blow. The other men in the room reached into their expensive blazers, no doubt for their weapons. Abbacchio, frozen, stood above Giorno, clutching the hand he hit with like it burnt.

\--

Giorno quite suddenly found himself on the ground. How had he gotten there, again? Gold Experience Requiem hovered above him, ready to protect.

"Shall I?" It suggested, tilting its crested head towards Abbacchio. His face, already pale on a good day, drained of all color. Gold-purple eyes that couldn't decide on a hue watched Requiem like an animal being hunted. The ex-cop hadn't seen his savior yet, the thing that reset even his death back to zero, and Giorno supposed that his reaction was a normal one to staring down Life and Death, Day and Night, Everything and Nothing. The lion had not expected him to bite back. Men, not Stand users, huddled in groups and whispered. What is he staring at? Is he crazy? Why does the Don not get up? Will he take this disrespect? All of it, underlaid with a desperate question, like vultures waiting for a dying animal to give up. Is he weak?

Logically, Giorno could not let this slide. It wasn't the blow that annoyed him; bruises would heal and already the sting had dulled to a mild itch. But to look feeble undermined his already precarious position. Leone's pride would not allow him to apologize, and Giorno's would not allow him to accept it, even if he had deserved the punch.

There was also the simple fact that Abbacchio had served him quite faithfully and had already died once in the name of his justice. Giorno did not see it necessary to kill him again. Instead, he opted for the softest option possible. Sliding neatly back into his chair with the aid of Gold Experience, he settled himself again and waved at his subordinates to relax. The defensive tilt did not drop from the man directly in front of him, but he tucked his hands behind his back to pretend he would not fidget. "Now we're even," Abbacchio supplied, still pale and shaky as the ghost he had been as Giorno's stand stared him down with its unnatural pupils dilating and contracting at random. It reached out and touched him on the shoulder. He flinched like he was the one struck.

"Leone," Giorno began, slipping back into the mask of the Don. Abbacchio bristled at the use of his first name. That was for one man only, not the child sitting in a chair like a throne, but although he simmered, the pot did not boil over again. Don Giovanna held out a perfect, manicured hand. The implications were clear.

Stiff, as if hate kept his joints from bending fluidly, Abbacchio knelt as Gold Experience Requiem disappeared. His eyes never left Giorno's own. I want to throttle you, they said, but the man himself remained silent. Leone took hold of Giorno's wrists and pressed his lips to Don Giovanna's knuckles. The boss chuckled as he smiled his not-quite-smile. "Thank you, Abbacchio. You are dismissed."

Abbacchio stood up and left, wiping his mouth on the back of his own hand. Giorno had half a mind to call him out on it but decided the man's pride had suffered enough.

\--

"Don Giovanna," the man deferred mildly, moving out of the way to allow Giorno through to the stove, "I was just making tea. Do you want some?"

This was new. Usually, Abbacchio went out of his way to block Giorno's path, to mess with him, to make his life harder than it had to be. Even Requiem resetting his death to zero, the memories eternally fresh in his mind, had not earned Leone's respect.

"As long as there's no urine in it," he joked.

Leone's perpetual scowl flickered deeper, but he schooled it back into his constant look of neutral displeasure. "You want it or not, Giorno?" Ah, there was the Abbacchio he knew and was acquainted with. "Make up your mind now or I won't get another cup."

"No, I'd like it. Thank you."

When the door to Giorno's office creaked open a few minutes later, Giorno braced himself for the nasty little smile and smell of ammonia that always accompanied Abbacchio's urine-based hazing rituals. "Here," Abbacchio grimaced, slamming a mug so hard down on his desk that Giorno was surprised it remained intact, nothing spilled. "I don't know what you like, so I just went with milk and sugar. Is that fine?" His voice was unusually clipped, but other than that, Leone had never spoken to Giorno so politely before. It obviously strained him.

Giorno didn't respond and instead took a sip. No piss.

"Right. Well, I'll be going, boss." The door slammed behind Abbacchio on his way out, but even the sudden jolt that almost made him spill the tea as it shook on its hinges couldn't shake the grin from Giorno's face.

So he had earned Leone Abbacchio's respect after all.


End file.
